Birthdays
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: There were three things that made Effie Trinket wobbly-in-the-knees, shudder-with-indulgence, oh-god-please, oh so weak. Hayffie, Seneca/Effie hints.


**Birthdays_  
_**

* * *

There were three things that made Effie Trinket wobbly-in-the-knees, shudder-with-indulgence, oh-god-_please_, _oh _so weak.

One — and please, ask any woman around to deny this — suave, sexy, smooth Seneca Crane. He was the epitome of all things she desired in a man. Of course, he was a timid little thing, always at the heels of Snow like a lost puppy, eager to please the man. So he was never available. Of course, _that_ didn't stop her from sleeping with him last week…

Though rumor has it that's all Seneca has time for now. Meaningless, one-night stands.

Still — how many can say they've tapped _the_ Seneca Crane? _Exactly._

Two_. _Effie had a soft, soft spot for this little brand of wine she's had her eyes on lookout for since the moment she tasted it at her seventeenth birthday party. Since then she's only had it a handful of times, but the taste — oh the taste! — is absolutely delectable. She loves the burn of alcohol sloshing her way down her throat, the momentary euphoria the haze of the wine clouds her vision with. She could do without the hangover, though. Bit of a brute it is, especially when she's got big, big, big days piled up one after the other. Still.

That wine is marvelous.

And finally, three.

_Chocolate._

She called it her sweet, sweet heaven. Fattening, heavily rich, and a bit expensive nowadays — especially when Eleven fails to harvest cocoa beans at the right season — many people don't eat chocolate; it's not common, not even in the Capitol. Chocolate is for the wealthy, for those in celebration, for those with every right safeguarded to their being, whether it being a birthday or a birthright.

Which makes chocolate such an appropriate wish for her today. It's her birthday, after all.

* * *

When she wakes up, she is stirred by the sound of breaking glass and scurrying Avoxes and Peacekeepers beating on her door to _shut-the-hell-up-Abernathy _and _Trinket-get-your-ass-up-and-calm-him-down_.

What a great way to start a birthday, right?

Thirty-six. Effie looks in the mirror and she sees her skin marked by wrinkles and her blonde hair turning white at the ends. Age, they say, age and stress. _Things just a few surgeries and wigs can fix._

Ugh. No one told her getting old sucked this much.

_"GOD-F—"_

Oh, and there goes the door flying open and the doorknob falling to the floor.

Haymitch Abernathy, the brute of a man, stood over her with bulging veins and shaking hands and everything that cried out withdrawal in every way possible. Ah. He found out.

"Woman!"

"Haymitch, that is not a way to address —"

And there goes the mirror shattering into pieces around his fist. Effie's used to this by now. What mirror is this? The 8th one he's broken in the three years they've been working together? Shameful and an awfully expensive habit, if you ask her.

_Note-to-self: stop coaching Haymitch on manners. See to it that he takes a damn class instead,_ she thinks.

"You despicable, insufferable, _good-for-nothing_, demon-from-_hell_ —"

Effie stands up straight, smoothing out her pencil skirt with lithe fingers. She brushes past the raving Haymitch, whistling a rather happy tune to block out his rage.

_Be calm. Be happy. It's your birthday, after all._

What she didn't expect, however, is him grabbing her by the shoulders and pressing her up against the wall. Her back hits the surface with a crack, her lips parted slightly in a god-awful, pitiful gasp. His arm pushes up against her throat, barely allowing her to breathe, let alone talk.

She thinks nothing of it until she feels that damn knife press against her throat and it's then she knows he's really serious.

_"You answer me real good, Princess," _he whispers, his voice gritting like gravel and his hands rough on her skin. "_Where'd you put my alcohol."_

"You wouldn't dare use that — that thing on me, Haymitch, you and I both know it," she bites back, holding her stare with his. His grey eyes don't falter, but she does recognize his consideration.

The knife clatters to the tiles below their feet and in that instant, she shoves him back as far away from her as she can. She can't be too safe, after all.

"Your alcohol is in the third cabinet from the left," she spits out, fixing herself again. "You don't need to jump me every time you're too lazy to look for yourself."

She starts to walk away once he tries to say, "Don't think I wouldn't use it on you —"

"Oh, go _fuck_ yourself, Haymitch," she yells back.

The bathroom door shuts closed behind her. Running the water, she quickly undresses and lets herself sink into the warm, steaming bath, freeing herself from any kind of stress, any kind of mention of that good-for-nothing, drunken-bastard, once-an-ass-always-an—-

_"Hey Trinket, I need to piss."_

_Happy birthday indeed._

* * *

After a full day of work — which was nothing like work, and really it were just birthday interviews with Caesar and dancing and drinking away at parties in her honor — she meandered back to her penthouse she shared with Haymitch during the Games. So she wasn't sober. He wasn't either, she'd bet her buttons on it.

At least she was _happily_ drunk.

The apartment was clean — thank God — and any sign of Haymitch was cleared and cleaned up after. Maybe it was a birthday gift by the Avoxes! How thoughtful.

She scowls. Haymitch didn't get her anything.

Well, fuck him too.

She stumbles into her bed, which would've provided her to instantly fall asleep, but no. Her bed was crowded with things addressed to her. And these aren't gifts she had sent to her flat in midtown.

These were others.

In her drunken state, she makes out a few of the things that clutter her bed — roses, tulips, scarves, wigs.

But there.

Right there.

In a black, ribboned box.

_Chocolate._

_And there._

Right there.

Is her favorite brand of wine.

Is a naked Seneca Crane hiding under her bed too? She checks to make sure — and unfortunately, there's just a pair of leather heels she wore last year.

She clears her bed to make room for sleep, and when she turns off the light, her fingers wrap around a stained, crinkled piece of parchment. In a messy scrawl is written —

_Hey. Sorry about overreacting. Happy birthday, old lady. Heard you like chocolate and wine. Heard you fancy Seneca too. So I got him to take you out to dinner tomorrow night. I'll take both shifts tomorrow, go have fun with your junior Gamemaker. I'll let you know if our tributes kick the bucket. You owe me big time._

_x Haymitch_

Smiling, she shakes her head and puts the paper away for safekeeping. Just something she could prove to people that Haymitch has a good heart. Just something she can look back to remind herself that Haymitch isn't always bad. Just something.

This is a happy birthday,_ indeed_.


End file.
